Stars Fell on Alabama

by M. Alan Marr

  Chaz laughs. “Occasionally.” He shakes his head. “I should have realized they’d be on crew rest now.”

  “Yes, that’s what the planner said. They said they can send another plane.”

  “You know, save Paris for another time,” Chaz suggests. “Let’s spend the day here and fly home as planned.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. There’s no reason to leave Venice early when we don’t have to. Plus, I’d rather keep our crew.”

  “Very well.” Dev calls the planner back. “This is Dev, listen, we’re going to return to Atlanta as planned . . . That’s right . . . What time? . . . No, I want them to be better rested than that . . . Fine, then tonight at 2100 hours . . . Yes, 9:00 pm.” Dev ends the call and then looks at Chaz to relay the conversation. “They said we can depart in—”

  “Eight hours.”

  “That’s right,” Dev says with a smile, because of course Chaz would know that.

  “You told the scheduler you wanted the crew to be better rested?”

  “I did.”

  “That’s amazing,” Chaz says. “I don’t know any civilians who have an appreciation for crew rest.”

  Dev chuckles. “Civilian.”

  “So wheels up at nine?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dev smiles. “Show me Venice.”

  They walk along the passages in Venice, opting always, for the path less traveled. Along the way, Chaz shakes his head in almost disbelief.

  “I can’t believe how we got here. I can’t even imagine what it cost to charter a BBJ and park it in Venice.”

  “Well, economics is one thing we don’t have to worry about.”

  “Dev, I’ve never not had to worry about economics.”

  “Well, then, we are a match made in the stars.”

  “Does it matter I don’t have a Family Trust?”

  “That depends,” Dev says. “Does it matter that I do?”

  “I told you, it wouldn’t matter to me if you were flat broke. I’d be with you no matter what.”

  Dev pauses on that note. No matter what. “That’s good to know.”

  Chaz is familiar with the area they are in. “Hey, are you hungry?”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  “Come on, there’s a little place I know by the Academia Bridge that serves the best prosciutto crudo sandwiches.”

  A friendly, somewhat frenzied middle-aged woman greets them as they walk in the door to the small eatery.

  “Ciao, vuoi qualcosa mangiare?”

  “Si,” Chaz replies, and then surprises Dev by speaking Italian. “Due prosciutto crudo, ey…” He turns to Dev. “What would you like to drink?”

  “We already started with champagne . . .”

  “Hey, I’m not driving.” Chaz turns to the woman. “Ey, due birre, per qui.”

  “Si, subito, grazie.”

  They sit at a little table by the window and watch as a precession of Venetian school kids amble by. “Looks like it’s recess.”

  “Academia Bridge,” Dev says, making the connection.

  “Yeah, that’s a school over there.”

  The server sets down two smallish glasses of beer on the table.

  “Grazie,” Chaz says and then turns to Dev and they toast. After Chaz takes a sip, he looks at the beer. “I love Europe. At home, if you ordered a beer at breakfast you’d be a total weirdo, but no one bats an eye here.”

  “Maybe we should live in Europe.”

  “Maybe one of us has to work on Thursday.”

  Dev sighs. “And there’s Alabama.”

  Chaz picks up a slight hint of anguish in Dev’s voice. “What is the urgency with that property? I mean, what’s so special about Alabama that has you so consumed all this time?”

  “The lake is . . . somewhat special.”

  Chaz knows Dev is being evasive but doesn’t want to put him in the uncomfortable position of having to elaborate. “Good fishing there,” Chaz says with a tone that says I know you’re not telling me something.

  “Without a doubt.”

  The server brings the sandwiches. “Allora, due panini.”

  Dev bites into his warm sandwich and loves what he’s tasting. The crispiness of the outside of the bread, the softness of the inside. The delicate saltiness of the prosciutto blending with the tender creaminess of mozzarella—magnifico.

  “This is delicious,” Dev says between bites. “In the meantime, how would you feel about taking some time off and showing me your world?”

  “My world?”

  “You fly all over the world,” Dev says, covering his misstep. “I could journey here a hundred times and miss this place for prosciutto crudo and breakfast beer.”

  “That’s true,” Chaz says. “I do tend to go off the beaten path.”

  Dev looks down, somewhat dejected. “I tried that in Atlanta and got mugged.”

  “Attempted,” Chaz jokes.

  Dev watches as an Italian man wearing wrinkled clothes and with serious bedhead enters the little cafe. The woman behind the counter starts a heated argument with him. They holler back and forth, hands waving, tempers flaring. Dev watches in amazement at the gesticulations and the fortitude at which they are arguing. He looks at Chaz, who leans in toward him and translates quietly.

  “Lover’s quarrel. Essentially, the woman behind the counter is angry that her boyfriend there didn’t come home last night. He’s insisting he was only out with friends and fell asleep.”

  The argument ends as abruptly as it started, and the man and the woman kiss, apparently making up. The now-smiling Italian departs. As he passes Chaz and Dev, the man winks.

  “Ciao ragazzi.”

  The boys finish their breakfast, very satisfied. Chaz pays the tab and they are back outside walking along the Venetian canals. Chaz considers what Dev said about traveling.

  “If you’re serious, I’d love to take you to some of my favorite spots. But listen, not in that BBJ. I can’t even imagine what that costs. We can fly commercially, can’t we?”

  “Well, look,” Dev says evasively, “my . . . Family Trust is large enough to cover any expenses we may have. And currently, as sole heir to said trust, I am . . . duty-bound to take certain precautions that . . . provide the . . . safest, most effective means of travel.”

  Chaz listens to Dev’s carefully formulated words. “Uh-huh, so what you’re saying is, you’re too much of a diva to fly commercial.” He laughs lightheartedly. “You are one of a kind, Dev.”

  “It’s not vanity. I need to able to operate on my own schedule.”

  “Your schedule’s that pressing, is it?”

  “I need to be able to return to Atlanta at a moment’s notice.”

  Chaz sees that Dev is being truthful. “Well, that is true—you can certainly call your own shots when you’re in a BBJ.”

  “Besides, you enjoyed sleeping in a real bed and having a dining room and a lounge.”

  Chaz sighs. “That was really nice.” He smiles and gives in. “Hey, it’s your money. If you want to blow your fortune on BBJs, knock yourself out. Then, after you’ve squandered your last million, you can travel on my passes.”

  “Deal!” Dev yells and slaps Chaz on his back, surprising him by how much force that slap carried. Dev’s happy burst of energy has him bounding forward saying, “Buongiorno!” to random people. Chaz laughs out loud and hurries to catch up to him. Onward together, they roam the island, looking in shops, and taking in the sights. Dev marvels to himself how many Observers from his world may have cast their eyes on these very sights, largely unchanged for centuries. Dev feels a certain sense of pride to be part of this unique legacy.

  They board a vaporetto water bus over to the nearby island of Murano to visit the various glass foundries and galleries. Chaz finds a vibrant, and fairly expensive, Murano vase he thinks would look great in Dev’s elevator vestibule. While sitting for a coffee at a small trattoria, Chaz excuses himself and tells Dev he’ll be right back. Dev assumes he is g
oing to use the facilities, but instead, Chaz doubles back to the gallery and buys the vase. Returning to the table a few minutes later, he pulls the vase from the bag and sets it on the table.

  “Housewarming gift. It would go great by the elevator.”

  Dev visualizes it. “Perfect idea! The burst of color will look spectacular in there. Thank you, Chaz.”

  Waiting for the vaporetto to returning to Venice, Chaz and Dev stand at the dock marveling at the beautiful view.

  “Venice is so cool,” Chaz says. “I could live here.”

  Later, Dev and Chaz meander down a street with several shops that sell leather gloves—guanti, as they are called in Italian. Dev has the artisans make custom-fitted leather gloves for each of them.

  “This is great,” Chaz says, flexing his fingers in his new gloves. “I can never find gloves that fit properly.”

  “Well, then,” Dev says, “the trip was entirely worth it.”

  Twilight descends on Venice, and the city’s lights add even more charm. Chaz and Dev stroll by a church that is hosting a local chamber music ensemble. Chaz purchases tickets and they take a seat. They’ve walked several miles today, and this concerto is the perfect little break. The ensemble tunes their instruments and then play for forty-five minutes. Afterward, the boys stroll through the darkening passages and decide it is time for dinner. They find a quiet restaurant through an ivy-covered arbor, definitely off the beaten path. No tourists, only locals. Walking through the leafy arch, they emerge into a lovely garden dining room in the outer courtyard of the small restaurant. Dinner truly al fresco. There is no way this could be bad. Even if the food is terrible, the setting is perfect, and the company beyond reproach. The food, as it turns out, is terrific.

  “Something just occurred to me,” Chaz says, as he puts down his fork.

  “What’s that?”

  “Flight Attendant Franz probably spent all day shopping and planning a dinner menu for us.”

  “Uh-oh,” Dev says, mid-chew. He swallows and then looks hopeful. “Well, how long is the flight to Atlanta?”

  “Depends on the winds aloft, but this time of year, eight, eight and a half hours or so.”

  Dev shrugs. “Plenty of time to work up another appetite.”

  Dessert and espresso are taken at a local bakery near the Rialto Bridge. Touristy, yes, but tasty just the same. The night air is brisk and invigorating.

  An hour before departure time, Dev and Chaz hail a water taxi. This one, a vintage teakwood motorboat with covered passenger compartment. The boat slowly putters along, negotiating the smaller canals. A few turns leads to the larger waterway, where the boatman accelerates, speeding their way toward Marco Polo Airport.

  A representative from the corporate hangar waits at the airport docks to receive and shuttle Dev and Chaz to the other side of the airport, where their crew and private jet awaits. Captain Steve is at the bottom of the stairs in full uniform and greets them.

  “Good evening, Gentlemen.” Steve says. “It’s a beautiful night to fly.”

  “Good evening, Captain,” Dev says.

  “Steve,” Chaz greets.

  “I hope you both had a good day.”

  “A very good day, Captain,” Dev says happily as he climbs the stairs to the jet.

  38,000 FEET

  NORTH ATLANTIC TRACK - WESTBOUND

  The return flight back to Atlanta is as relaxing and luxurious as the flight over. More so even, since the cabin crew picked up more of the particular likes and dislikes of their two clients, such as Chaz’s preference for extra cold champagne.

  The galley was fully restocked in Venice for a sumptuous meal service. Franz delays serving dinner for several hours to give Chaz and Dev time enough to work up a new appetite. And once again, the boys leave the dining room full to the gills. They decide to delay dessert for a while and instead settle in the lounge with the lights low and the jazz soft for a relaxed evening in the air.

  An hour or so after the meal service, but before the boys get too tired, Franz had Annette serve dessert in the lounge. And despite protestations of being unable to eat another bite, one bite of Franz’s delicious tiramisu is actually all it took to make the boys devour all of it. Franz is an amazing chef.

  Chaz decides to shower before bed and leaves Dev alone in the lounge for a few minutes. The time alone gives Dev the chance to reflect on the day’s events. The conclusion of the Alabama business should have meant the flight back to the United States would be stress free. Not so for Dev, who has a single worrisome thought: Chaz.

  The usual protocol of waking ninety minutes prior to landing is abandoned in favor of sleeping. That in mind, Franz wakes them thirty minutes prior. The flight touches down in ATL a little after 0200, Atlanta time. A limo drops Chaz and Dev off at the Gillespie, but instead of going up to the penthouse, they walk across the street to Chaz’s condo, where they both spend the night.

  Dev wakes up around 0900 hours. What woke him up? Was it a door closing?

  “Good morning, weary traveler,” Chaz says, wide awake, and entering the room with two venti coffees.

  Dev stretches and yawns. “Good morning.”

  “Your coffee, sir,” Chaz says with a mock English accent, handing him his Starbucks.

  “Thank you,” Dev says, still waking up. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Coffee is the most important meal of the day.”

  “I thought champagne was the most important meal,” Dev says, a bit groggy.

  Chaz laughs. “Not on a work day.”

  “It’s not Thursday.”

  “I got a text from another first officer this morning asking if I would trade trips with him. It’s his kid’s birthday, so he wanted to be at home.”

  “Oh,” Dev replies, somewhat disappointed.

  “But I’ll be back in forty-eight hours, and then have six days off.”

  Dev gets up and puts Chaz’s robe on. “Well, that’s not so bad, then.”

  “I’m going to make you breakfast, then I have to get ready for work.”

  “I need to go to the attorney’s office today and drop off the paperwork and hopefully collect the deed to the property.” He rethinks that for a moment. “Probably not the deed. Everything seems to take a long time here.”

  “Are you going out there while I’m away?”

  “To Alabama? No, no need right now.”

  “You’ll have to take me there sometime,” Chaz reiterates. “I’d like to see this all-consuming lake property.”

  “Okay. You can take me camping.”

  “Camping? You?” Chaz jokes. “You are aware there is no concierge while camping?”

  Dev gives Chaz a smile. “I’m not nearly as delicate as you seem to think I am.”

  Chaz laughs. “I don’t think you’re delicate. But you do like the finer things.”

  “When you live in a crowded world, camping is a fine thing.”

  “Perhaps I misjudge you,” Chaz jokes.

  After coffee, and showering, Dev walks into Chaz’s kitchen for some water. He sees a refrigerator magnet containing a picture of the two of them. Under the magnet is a Thrillions! lottery ticket Chaz purchased in Los Angeles during his Netherlands trip several days earlier. Dev plucks the ticket off the fridge and looks at it. He remembers Chaz mentioning the lottery and wonders about the string of numbers printed on the ticket.

  “Do these numbers have any significance, or are they randomly generated?”

  “Well, you’re going to think I’m an idiot . . .”

  “What? I would never think that.”

  Chaz points to each number. “Okay, this is my birthday, this is the date I started the Naval Academy, the day I graduated, the date I got my wings, my parents’ birthdays, and this one is the day you and I met.”

  “How is the winner selected?”

  “You’ve never seen a lottery drawing? Well, they used to have these machines filled with numbered ping pong balls, but there was some kind of scandal. So now they’
ve got these seven supercomputers, and each one generates a random number.”

  “When is the drawing?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Chaz says. “Unfortunately, I’m going to miss it.”

  “How much is this worth?”

  “The jackpot is four hundred million.”

  “Money seems to be the single most important thing on this world.”

  “Says the wealthy man.” Chaz laughs. “I don’t think it’s the most important thing. Someone once said there’s no shame in being poor—Of course, he went on to say it’s no great honor either.”

  “It’s what you do that matters,” Dev says, returning the ticket under the magnet. “What would you do?”

  “If I won? I don’t know,” Chaz says. “A lot of people say the first thing they’d do is retire, but I couldn’t do that. I love my job. I love to fly. It’s all I ever wanted to do. And winning four hundred million wouldn’t change that.” Chaz opens the door to the refrigerator. “But it would sure be nice not to ever have to worry about finances again. Damn,” he says, while looking inside the fridge.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m out of butter.”

  “I’ve got some. I’ll run across the street.”

  “No, I’m making you breakfast. You sit and relax. I’ll go get it.” Chaz picks up his keychain and jingles it. “I’ve got a key to the penthouse over there.”

  “Oh?” Dev smiles. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Some guy gave it to me.”

  Dev laughs.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  After Chaz leaves the condo, Dev looks at the lottery ticket, and a devious smile forms on his face. “Perfect idea.” He grabs his iPhone off the counter next. But instead of swiping-right to unlock the screen, he swipes left. The display dissolves from the normal iPhone graphics to the foreign icons of Dev’s technology. Dev begins keying in various commands, and then enters each of the numbers on Chaz’s lottery ticket: 02, 31, 18, 01, 15, 06, 29. Dev verifies the numbers against the ticket, then presses the screen icon labeled Initiate.